RAZOR

The already-vibrating ground jolts violently underneath Razor's feet, like a table struck with a hammer. In the distance to the west, hundreds of objects are shooting up into the air, a myriad white vapor trails in their wake, fanning out like a rising mushroom cloud.

This is megadeath. This is what the apocalypse looks like.

Razor tears his gaze away from the view. He sheathes the sword, placing it in the scabbard attached to Silas' body. He squats, lifting the unconscious Silas onto his shoulder. He stands, just as the unmanned car bursts up over a dune and comes to a screeching halt, the big tires spitting sand.

It's a Sandhawk, specifically designed for quick traversal in Sector Nine climes. Beige paint, chipped and scratched from the crash. Modeled like a twenty-first century sedan, if a bit angular and boxy in places. Bullet-proof and blast-resistant hull and windows. Not durable enough to wait out a Grade Five Incursion, far from it, but it'll have to do for the getaway.

The two front doors open automatically. Razor sits Silas down in the passenger seat, goes to the shut the door, hesitates, then buckles Silas in.

There's a whirring and hissing sound as Silas shuts the driver's door. It's the Sandhawk's survival systems, making a perfect seal. The idea is to keep out any deadly gases or experimental nanoscopic SERAPHIM weapons, if they exist. Razor could run a diagnostic to make sure it's all in working order, but there's no time.

He slams his boot into the accelerator. The tires spin for a second before catching, and the Sandhawk lurches forward, jets of sand bursting up and over the windshield. They're off, bouncing and rumbling, putting the suspension systems to work. Soon, things flatten out a bit, and the acceleration really starts to take hold, the panoramic views at either side window turning blurry as dunes and rocky outcroppings int he foreground zip by.

In the rearview mirror--and cameras--the many distant, contrailed specks are starting to take on form and shape. MALAK drones. Long chrome cylinders, with a bar-like attachment at the back which spins as the drone flies through the air, like a rotary blade. As the bars spin, little holes morph and fluctuate on the ends of the bars, making strange sounds as air passes through them.

Razor can already hear them. Like whistles, or tweets, getting louder and more full-bodied as they encroach, and integrating new accompaniments. A deep, ominous sound joins the cacophony, like the blowing of an ancient battle horn, moments before the bloodbath begins.

The whistles of a MALAK are echolative in nature, emitted at special frequencies that function like radar. More than that, they are the trump that sounds as the world comes to an end. They are a message to any and all living things they come into contact with. 'We are here. We have come. Resistance is meaningless.'

Razor turns his focus forward, taking a deep breath. He flips up a switch cover on the dashboard with his thumb. He didn't have time to check the integrity of the thruster system when he was making repairs. But there's nothing for it, now.

Please don't explode.

He punches the button with his thumb.

There's a loud WHUMP as the engine shifts ahead by about five gears, the momentum shoving Razor back and locking him into his seat. The view from the windshield is like a dramatic, ongoing camera zoom. The entire vehicle rattles and shakes with its acceleration. Razor swears he can see blur lines in the corners and edges of the windshield, like in a videogame.

In the rear cameras, the MALAK's appear to be holding pace, and even gaining. Which is unfortunate, because the Sandhawk's thruster system only has so much juice.

If only there was some way to-

Oh, shit.

Weird little boxes of static manifest, obscuring Razor's vision. His OS is glitching. It's the invasive SERAPHIM protocol, trying to worm it's way in, like a virus. The process usually isn't successful, not completely, but the invasion does force the OS to divert its resources to fight back.

Because of this, there's some annoying anomalies that tend to sneak through. Which is why there's a giant notification message in the middle of Razor's head, and a sudden onslaught of deep, eerie wind instrumentation in his head, joining the cacophony tailing him outside the car.

A loading bar appears, indicating the time before the OS can purge the cyberattack. Above that, the message, courtesy of SERAPHIM, in big blocky letters that obstruct Razor's view, threatening to make him crash the Sandhawk.

Three words.

BE NOT AFRAID.

Though everything else seems to be going wrong, it looks like the Sandhawk is finally up to speed, starting to put some distance between Razor and the MALAK's. For now.

The OS' loading bar climbs slowly but steadily toward completion. Meanwhile, those words. Those fucking words in the middle of his HUD.

A ping on the vehicle's scanners. Two, actually.

The humans! He'd just about forgotten about them.

They were supposed to rendezvous at the outcropping.

Red outlines appear on the windshield marking their position. Distant and barely discernible, to the point where razor might not have noticed them unless the cars computer had pointed them out.

Both humans are heading heading east. Apparently they didn't have the patience to wait for Razor, so they took off on foot.

Futile, really, but better than just waiting around to be immolated.

At this point, death is certain for the two of them. Razor can't intervene. If he slows down, even for a few seconds, the drones will gain on him, and it will be the end. Razor will die, Silas will die, the Key will be destroyed, and SERAPHIM will inevitably win. All because of one freak coincidence, all because of this bizarre, unforeseen anomaly.

If it even is a coincidence. There must be some reason for this sudden incursion in a place where SERAPHIM have never attacked before. The exact spot on this entire planet for the Key can be found.

But Razor doesn't know anything about that, not for sure. All he knows is that he can't stop for Shiloh and Cade. He has to keep going. With that realization, feels his gut turning, twisting into a knot. Which is strange, because he's done far worse things in the name of Ironhold than leave a couple of comrades behind. Compared to the blood he's had on his hands, this is nothing, just an unfortunate situation with a couple of casualties that couldn't be avoided. It's not like he's killing them; it's not like he's actually leaving them to die. It wasn't ever his choice at all. He never intended for the siren wail of the drones to be the last thing they would hear.

Razor's fingers contort around the steering wheel like a vice. The car thrashes and shakes like an enraged, barely-controlled beast, the violent vibrations shuddering up his arms and into his shoulders, making his teeth click together. The red outlines of Shiloh and Cade swell on the windshield as the distance closes. The calls of the drones get increasingly shrill and deep at the same time, louder and louder as they blare their stupid song. Almost as if the drones can sense him, almost as if they're flying into a frenzy, outraged that he might escape.

Razor himself is increasingly convinced that he won't. The thruster fuel is running low. In fact, the gauge he's looking at right now might actually be incorrect because he can already feel it; acceleration is leveling off, like there isn't much juice left to propel it the car.

He was never going to get away. His confidence had been shaky to begin with. He'd put on a show to try to get Parallax and Artifice off his back, and they bought it, but the truth is, it was a shaky plan from the beginning, and now it's too late. It's not going to work.

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All those high-pitched whistles and sonorous hums are like trumpets announcing the end of the world. And that's exactly what this is.

It's actually kind of funny. After all this, after finally taking that step to defy the elites and side with humankind, it's all going to end here, for nothing. The world would have been better off if he had sided with Parallax and Artifice, if he had turned Silas in, because then at least they'd have the Key, then at least they'd have some hope against SERAPHIM.

Only, would Razor have actually done it? Even if he understood how slim the odds were, would he still have taken the chance?

Probably. Yeah. Even if he could turn back time, he'd do it again. He's almost ashamed to realize that.

What a way to go out. What a way to say goodbye to Parallax. One final disagreement to send things off. Still so incompatible, the two of them, despite being so madly in love. He should contact her, say something to her, but the SERAPHIM activity seems to be interfering too much with the comms. He can't get ahold of her.

Hopefully, she's safe. Hopefully, she's already on the outer fringes of Sector Nine. Hopefully, she stays away—far, far away.

There it is. Razor can feel it. The thrusters are finally giving out, whether from lack of fuel or damage from the crash. It doesn't really matter either way; the car is slowing, and behind him, the drones are faster than ever, sweeping in low, converging, coming in for the kill. They'll explode on impact, like sentient missiles. That's what they're designed to do, after they've sent back detailed reconnaissance data to the HERALD. Assuming Razor is the only target in the area, all those hundreds of drones in the Sector will begin zeroing in on his position, each one of them exploding with enough force to destroy the SandHawk ten times over and leave a big dusty crater behind. There are dozens of drones tailing him right now, all likely to impact him at around the same time, summoning a giant ball of fire and smoke and ash. He's about to be incinerated several times over.

It would be another thing if the SandHawk's weapon systems were operational. Maybe he'd be able to intercept and destroy at least some of the drones. As it is, the guns are damaged from the crash. Pressing the designated button on the console does nothing, except cause the console screen to flash: OFFLINE.

Razor only has one recourse. At this point, the drones are close enough that it might be worth trying.

As the SandHawk continues to lose momentum, and the drones grow in size in the rearview cameras, Razor activates the self-driving mode and presses another button, and the roof of the Sand Hawk disconnects from the rest of the vehicle and peels away, pulled like a jellyfish in an ocean current through the air. He dips into his Nanobit reserves to summon a pair of goggles to protect his eyes from the rush of the open air. Then he shifts in his seat, upper body facing backward, and holds out his hand, summoning a slim, heavy javelin. He looks at it, trying to gauge its strength and durability, if it can even penetrate a drone's hull, let alone impact with enough force to set off the detonations inside, if that's even possible.

Not quite right.

He coats the javelin in another layer of metal, adding to the weight.

There.

It’s not a question of whether it will work. It has to work.

Razor holds out one hand in front of him like a cross. He squints one eye against the sun overhead, shafts of light gleaming on the summon javelin like lens flares. The car jitters suddenly.

No—the ground does.

Razor grabs onto his seat to keep from falling off. He glances over at Silas, who's still somehow unconscious.

Unbelievable.

Suddenly, the loading bar in his heads-up display completes its journey, deleting the ominous message obstructing his vision.

Now there's a flood of updates coming in. The most recent has to do with that tremor just now. Apparently, it didn't come from the west; it came from somewhere just east of Razor's position, and from several different points at once.

Mechanical in nature. It has to be. There's nothing natural about it.

Don't try to decipher the data. Just fucking look.

He does. And is so stunned he nearly drops his javelin over the side.

Anti-air turrets. Massive, looming, jutting up out of the ground, wearing big chunks of rock and patches of sand like hats. Two massive cannons attached to each one. All of the turrets are adjusting, rotating, pointing in the direction of the drones.

Oh, hell yeah, Razor thinks.

Then, immediately after, Oh, no.

He crouches down, making himself small, at the same time he reaches over, covering and protecting Silas's head and face with his hand. Then the cannonade begins, each shot booming like thunder, loud enough to drown out even the song of the drones. Dozens of projectiles fly past overhead in bright yellow flashes, impacting their targets.

Now the thunder is so close, right behind Razor, shrieking into his ear. The blast wave rocks the SandHawk and jostles Razor in his seat, threatening to throw him overboard. And it's not just the one explosion. It's dozens of them, one after the other. They're relentless and always getting closer, hotter, louder. Even if they are being held at bay by the guns.

This is it. This is Razor's chance.

He takes back control of the vehicle, gripping the steering wheel.

There they are, the two humans. He'd just about passed them. He veers, heading toward Shiloh and Cade. At the same time, he can feel the waves of heat and force subsiding. As the perpetual midair wall of fire recedes further and further back, held at a distance by the anti-air turrets for now, Razor turns the SandHawk, skidding on the sand, bringing it to a stop just twenty or so feet ahead of Shiloh and Cade.

They're both panting, their faces red, sweat glistening on their skin like diamond dust. Razor presses a button on the console and the back doors pop open. Shiloh reaches the closest door, practically tripping and falling inside and onto her seat. Cade loops around to the other side. Both doors close at nearly the same time.

For some reason, Razor's first inclination is to ask them if they're hurt.

"What are you looking at me for?" Shiloh says. "Fucking drive!"

He guns the accelerator. Yes, ma'am.

He slams his foot on the accelerator, at the same time activating a secondary hood for the car, little metal plates moving into position over their heads and clicking together. Seems like a reasonable thing to do, with so much shrapnel flying about behind them. Not to mention humans can be so fragile, to begin with.

In the rearview, the drones are clustering and replenishing almost as quickly as they're being destroyed. Every one of them is narrowing in on his position, which means the turrets won't be able to hold them off for long.

"I'm gonna guess that you guys didn't do this," Razor says.

"Who, me?" Cade says. "Us? If anything, we thought it would have been you."

So nobody has any idea who's controlling these things. Not that Razor's complaining.

Within seconds, they reach the line of turrets, and Razor has to weave the SandHawk as they navigate between them. There's dozens and dozens of them. And probably more out there, too. They just haven't been activated yet for some reason.

Meanwhile--what's the play here? Hold position, move in a circle around this cluster of turrets until all of the drones are destroyed, assuming these guns have enough ammo and consistent firepower to accomplish that?

Assuming the Sand Hawk doesn't run out of fuel or break down?

"What's that?" Shiloh says, pointing ahead.

Something's moving out there. The sand is shifting--there's some kind of flap pushing upward under one of the dunes, some kind of opening. Sand falls, cascading down through the big slot. Looks like it could be a tunnel, or some kind of access hatch.

"Looks like an invitation to me," Cade says.

Razor swallows nervously. "Looks like that to me too."

"Seriously!?" Shiloh cuts in. "I think you guys are assuming a lot. You don't know what that is. You don't know what's under there, or if it's safe. How are we supposed to know where it leads?"

"I know what's behind us," Razor says. "That's good enough for me."

"What!?" Shiloh says. "We don't get a say in this!?"

"Nope," Razor says. "I'd buckle up if I were you, because I can't exactly slow down."

"Fuck", Shiloh mutters behind him. Then Razor hears the click of both seat-belts in the back.

Razor buckles his own, one hand still gripping the steering wheel. Why not?

As they weave out from between the turrets, surpassing them, the turrets rotate, adjusting in order to get accurate shots of the drones passing over and past them. The drones are once again right on Razor's tail, even if they are being picked off as they go. Each exploding drone is like a gun being fired next to his ears, disorienting him. Hot blasts of air slam into him from behind, over and over again, threatening to throw the SandHawk into a roll.

C'mon, not right now. Not just yet.

At this point, the opening in the sand is about the size of a double-door garage. The interior appears pitch-black from this angle, shrouded in shadow. No way to tell what's going on in there.

"I would hold onto something," Razor says.

Behind them, one of the drones has pushed through the seemingly impenetrable wall of fire in the air behind them. The MALAK drone swoops downward toward the car, avoiding every one of the anti-air shots, like a sneaky little ninja missile.

You've got to be kidding me.

"Uh..." Cade says from the backseat. "It's closing. It's definitely closing."

He's right. The opening in the sand is beginning to slide shut. Perhaps in anticipation of the incoming threat from the missile, protecting itself.

Razor could brake. He could swerve, heading off in a new direction. But if he does that, the MALAK will hit the SandHawk, and everyone inside will be toast.

So he holds the course instead. 'Pedal to the metal', as it were. Rapidly approaching the descending door.

Closer. Closer. The mysterious cave looms like a giant maw, the metal door collapsing like a set of sharp teeth.

Razor braces, cringing.

As they slip through the opening, the door scrapes against the hood of the car from front to back, bright sparks flashing in the windows. Then there's an explosion behind them, on the other side of the door. Big arms of fire reach in under the closing gap. The cave rocks, shaking the car like a ragdoll, flipping it.

Rolling, crashing, the SandHawk descends an unforeseen incline, down and down, into the black.